


An Insult to Pigs

by ByJoveWhatASpend



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Cannibalistic Thoughts, Drabble, Gen, Season/Series 01, Someone Help Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 00:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByJoveWhatASpend/pseuds/ByJoveWhatASpend
Summary: Prompt: I would like to see a fic in which Will (season 1) is in a stressful situation. Policeman's Ball, that sort of thing, somewhere with a lot of people he would hate having to interact with.And he thinks ‘Hannibal would be able to handle this’So, as something like an experiment, he decides to just… let his Inner Hannibal take over





	An Insult to Pigs

_‘I am good with people’_  he thinks to himself. ‘ _I understand what is expected of me, the intricate rules and steps to socialization. It is a dance, and I ~~am well trained—~~  
_

**_no, I’ve trained myself_ **

_I want to blend in, and so I do_

_It is easy to blend in with ~~sheep~~ , with **cattle** , the rituals are easy to understand from the outside looking in_

_But this is not me_

_This is not where I am comfortable_

_Where am I comfortable?’_

Will remembers the intrigued gaze of Hannibal during their conversations, the easy way he fills the massive room with his presence, overflowing with art and pretension, while his own drawings sit piled, unnoticed in the corner.

_This is a place for peacocking, a show of power, the place best suited to make my feathers shine. It is theatrical and shaped not to make my clients comfortable, but to make them stand in awe of me._

Something in Will’s stomach tugs at him as Not-Him-But-Not-Quite-Hannibal watches Sgt. Carter laugh, his teeth smeared with off-colour hummus, his breath briney with vinegar.

The kitchen. Hannibal's eyes as soft as his unshaven jaw while he fixes Will coffee, a pleased grin curling his lips while he dresses his desserts with handmade glazes.

_Here everything is neat, orderly, controlled. I oversaw everything about this meal, and so control the outcome. I sharpen my knives until they slide through the meat like butter. The knife is perfect, the meat is perfect, I’ve sourced it myself. Ethically sourced, by my own definition. The meat will not be soured by cages and a lifetime of pain. Only for a short time, near the end, and the trade-off for this meal is worth it._

_I feel no guilt as I taste the meat, I earned this, it was born with it’s destiny at the slaughter already set, and I am more deserving of that reward that anyone else._

~~_Only those with taste are allowed at my table–_ ~~

no

 _only those **deserving**._ 

Taste isn’t as important. 

_People I like deserve to eat the best, whether or not they can recognize it themselves. Will, Alana, Jack, and Abigail are welcome at my table._

Sgt. Carter slaps Will on the shoulder, Will has apparently said something funny but he doesn’t quite remember it, not an anecdote, because Hannibal never volunteers information about himself if he can help it. Wordplay, more likely, he enjoys his mastery of the language and always chooses his words with care.

But Sgt. Carter is still holding his shoulder, and for a moment Will thinks the disgust in his throat is his own. But no, this is Almost-Hannibal, and his smile stays stiff, but the hand on his shoulder is like a dead thing, unwelcome and liable to smell, unpleasant in the extreme. Not-Hannibal tries to subtly sidestep it but now Carter has a hold of him, coming in closer, foul breath in his ear.

“Hey Graham, I’ve got one for you.” he promises, tone low to account for eavesdroppers, but voluminous from champagne. “Tell me, do you know why women have legs?”

Will distances himself, but Almost-Hannibal stands firm. He does not laugh at Carter’s joke, and that ball of slime in his throat grows hot, rising upwards and making him take in a breath. The warm air hits his teeth and he knows that they are bared, not at all a smile, but no one seems to see it. 

_This man is lower than the cows that grace my table. The pain the animal feels is not earned, not after a lifetime of placidity and ignorance and sweet nature. The cow helps society, it provides milk its entire life, births more calves than its nature requires, and calmly walks itself to the slaughter. Its pain is too long and it’s life goes unnoticed._

_This man is lower than the cow, a **pig**. An insult to pigs, but the closest I can attribute. He is ignorant by choice, he is…. _

_**rude**._

_If he dies quickly in action or peacefully in his sleep it will be more than he deserves._

_I want him to have the death he deserves_

_I want to **taste** him_

_I am better than him, and I will feel no guilt_

_He **owes** it to me._

When Hannibal next blinks, Will finds himself in Wolf Trap, unlocking his door. There is a moment of cold fear as he meets his own reflections gaze in the small window, and another, brighter panic as he realizes he must have lost hours. The sun hadn’t quite been down before, and a look at his watch (the bright green numbers blurring as his hands shake) tells him it is nearing midnight.

The dogs are yapping excitedly, scratching at the door, and after a few calming breaths he unlocks it and lets them run past him into the yard.

_He is fine._

He will tell Hannibal about it at their appointment tomorrow.

And if he can feel thin strips of meat between his molars, and if he scrubs his teeth hard enough to turn the toothbrush red, he will probably forget about it in the morning.


End file.
